Straying the Beaten Path
by witchboy00
Summary: For almost fifteen hundred years, Romano Vargas has tried time and time again to prove to the world, and himself, that his existence was not a fluke. And, time and time again, it became increasingly clear that perhaps that is exactly all he is: a product of luck. So, when he gets a call from Germany that the Allies are after Feli, he decides to-once and for all-seize his fate.
1. Chapter 1

He would never admit this aloud, not even if you held him at gunpoint and demanded he do so. But among the many things he missed dearly about living with Spain, the one Romano Vargas longed for the most would be the quiet of the Spanish countryside. Now more than ever, not for the first time, with the drum of machine gun rounds and the moan of fighter planes overhead filling his ears—as well as his trauma-laced nightmares—he wished he could return to the days of his childhood and continue to live in total, uninterrupted silence. Things were simpler then: wake up to the sun warming his chubby face, eat chocolate con churros for breakfast, work in the tomato fields, and so on. (And, when Spain taught him about siestas, a few of those were thrown into the mix, as well.) He learned to value the easy-going lifestyle of the Spanish and doing things at one's own pace.

Thus, the ringing of his alarm on this, or any, morning was entirely unwelcome.

Romano groaned, clearly annoyed by the unwanted sound invading an otherwise peaceful slumber. For a moment, confusion reigned as the temptation to slip back into sleep gently coaxed him along. His bleary vision faded in and out of darkness, yet the incessant ringing danced at the edge of his subconscious, only just keeping him away from tantalizing sleep. In a feeble attempt to ignore such noisy intrusion-and so early in the morning! -he pulled the covers over his head. It didn't take long, however, for him to realize this was one war he would not win (and he knew quite a bit about those sorts of losses). Ever reluctantly, Romano Vargas rolled out of bed and began the dreaded quest for silence, dutifully uttering curses along the way. Oh, how sleep loved to tease him, and _oh_ how the caller would pay _dearly_ for interrupting their ritual time alone.

The source of the sound—a clearly aging rotary phone whose darkened hues of gold still reflected every bit of the shine and brilliance of the man who gifted it to him—sat seemingly innocent atop his deep mahogany desk. Strewn about it were various war-laden documents, stressfully scribbled notes, and of course: his beloved photo of a family from long ago. A family that would never again be. He gave pause, regarding the tattered still of memory as he did many a time before, before shaking himself. Clearly, someone needed his attention; these days no one bothered to call unless someone wanted something from him, anyway.

For a moment, Romano considered the other body he shared the meager bedroom with: Feliciano. A glance backward, and he fondly noted his younger brother's sleeping form curled up and burrowed in an impressive mountain of covers. The sound of soft snoring and steady breathing made its way into his ears; all was still calm. He debated taking the call here, as sudden conversation posed a risk to waking the resting man. Although, he knew with absolute certainty that the harsh ringing would eventually wake even Feliciano Vargas, a god among even the heaviest of sleepers. On a whim, Romano's fingers wrapped around the device's familiar neck, and with the choice made he allowed his own croaky voice to join the morning's sounds. " _Pronto_ ," he muttered, warily eyeing any sign of stirring from his brother. "What do you want so early in the goddamn morning?"

"That's certainly no way to greet your commanding officer, _Herr Vargas_ ," came the sharp reply, coated with an unmistakable, gruff German accent. "Especially after trying my patience and making me wait so long. You would do well to remember holding your tongue, lest you find yourself losing it—do I make myself clear?"

Despite contrary belief, Romano was no fool. He knew full well what Ludwig and his superiors were capable of should he mouth off a step too far from usual. Such came the horrors of war and being forced to align with such monstrosity. Unfortunately for his German associate, who he knew for a fact was chasing after Feliciano, Romano also was no coward. "My apologies, _commandante_ ," he allowed, sarcasm lazily dripping from his tongue, though with notably less malice than before. "To what, then, do I owe the pleasure of this phone at such a delightful time of day?" It wasn't lost on the Southern Italian just how important this conversation was. Communication between national bodies during times of war was exceedingly rare, especially unencrypted. There simply was no need; anything of importance that needed to be said could be passed along via their respective leaders.

Unless, of course, it was an emergency. So, if Ludwig was calling him now…

"Forget it; it doesn't matter. Time is of the essence."

"Well then, with all due respect, just spit it out already—"

"British forces have begun invading Sicily, you fool!" There was a beat of stunned silence—then two, then three—and the snapped response all but hung densely in the air, threatening to suffocate them both. Before a word of apology could even begin to form on Romano's tongue, however, Ludwig continued. "Italy informed me some time ago that his Southern half would be staying with him for a few weeks—are you still there?"

Despite the dire situation at hand, Romano couldn't help but bristle at being referred to as a southern half, effectively demonstrating the lack of autonomy he seemed to have over his own person. _I'm a personification_ , he thought bitterly, _a pawn in a game. The least you could do it acknowledge the one moving the piece, potato bastard_. "Yes," he murmured nonetheless, barely able to register the question with all the deafening thoughts racing through his mind. "Yes, I'm still in Florence, with Feliciano. What do you want me to do, _commandante_?"

"Protect Feliciano with your life. Flee Italy as soon as possible."

" _Scusa_?"

"Do not argue with me, Vargas," came the sharp reply. "There is no time for it."

Any ounce of subordinate fear Romano had abandoned him in favour of protective instinct. "Make time, then! I can't just tell my brother we're leaving without a good explanation, _testa di cazzo_!"

" _Du hältst jetzt die Klappe!_ You are a macroregion: a subdivision defined only by traditional politics, globalization, and leading a legacy only comprised of tasteless Americanized film caricatures. Whether or not you are taken by the Allies holds little bearing, save wartime formality, as you hold virtually no worth in terms of political bargaining."

"But Feli does."

"Exactly. Mussolini will be forced to bend at Allied will, as he would need to quickly regain Italy by any means possible—including surrender."

Romano sighed, casting an accusatory glare toward the heavens. _For all our country's legacy of dutiful worship_ , he thought, _you_ really _enjoy shitting in my dinner, eh_? His earlier fatigue returned to his bones tenfold, this time joined by a faint migraine and an ache marching down his spine. "Message received, _commandante_. I mean nothing; Italy means everything."

"Indeed. I'm glad you finally seem to understand the severity of the situation." Upon only receiving a half-hearted hum in affirmative, Ludwig continued. "Even if it costs you your life, you must not allow Italy to fall into enemy hands. He is far too valuable to our cause, to his country…" _To the heart of Germany himself_ , although both men knew better than to voice it. "Once Southern Italy has fallen, it will only be a matter of time before they begin heading North. Fortunately, you will have a four-day head start to find somewhere safe for him until the Allied forces are driven out."

If _they can be driven out, with the way this hopeless war is going_. " _Capisco, commandante_. We'll leave tonight at dusk. Was there anything else…?"

A pause. "Would it be possible—I only wish to speak privately with Feliciano. It may be some time before I can talk to him again. If this is to be the end of our communication, I want it to be on good terms."

It took everything Romano had not to scoff at that. Even in the depths of cruelty and madness, it seemed only his dear young brother could surface any microscopic amount of humanity Ludwig had left. And, of course, his gut instinct was to end the call right then and there. But he knew how it would break Feliciano if something were to happen and he couldn't properly say goodbye. With _Nonnuccio_ and Holy Rome gone—well, the younger man wouldn't be able to handle the heartbreak a third time. "Let me go wake him," he ceded, feeling every bit like some faceless courier sent between Romeo and Julian. Then again, what else was new? Setting the phone to the side, without bothering to wait for a response from the German, Romano stilled, trying to relish the few seconds of quiet he had left before the weeks of uncertainty ahead.

"Lovi?"

Startled, Romano whirled around; it seemed despite his best efforts, his little brother finally awoke. "Damn it, _Veneziano_ , don't you know not to scare me like that? We're at fucking war, for Christ's sake."

Feliciano, in his infinite sainthood and for all the hostility thrown toward him, only smiled. "Well, good morning to you to! I'm glad to see you up so early with so much energy, _fratellone_!"

Ignoring the playful ribbing, Romano handed his younger brother the telephone's neck. "Make it quick. We've got somewhere to be soon, so come find me whenever you lovebirds are done." He didn't wait around for a response, hastily moving to dress himself and begin packing. On his way out of the small bedroom, he could hear Feliciano's soft murmuring, no doubt using what little time the duo had left together to tell the German everything and anything. They both knew that this war was coming to an end—a bad one. The Allies made very clear that they were not interested anymore in negotiations or mercy of any kind, especially now that American was eagerly joining in. For all the two of them knew, this could be the last time they ever spoke to each other.

As he closed the door, there was a twisted part of Romano that rejoiced at the thought of his Northern half finally getting to experience a taste of his entire lost childhood. _You can't have everything, Vene,_ he thought. The journey ahead would prove to be tense, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

_"On the whole our American outlook on Sicily and Sicilians has been so influenced by the idea of "Mafia" that we've created two separate identities for thinking about Italy. There's the mainland full of art, wine, and romance, then there's the island, which is a lawless land run by large men with dark mustaches and brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes...The beautiful thing is that in some ways you're not wrong! While Sicily shouldn't have the reputation of an island of infamous organized crime, it also shouldn't be lumped together with the rest of Italy. The Sicilian identity is extremely important and it's this pride that helps preserve the islands unique and varied culture" (Sicily Lifestyle)._

After hanging up with Ludwig, it didn't take long for Feliciano to rejoin his older brother. He found the man in the kitchen rummaging through the cupboards, scrutinizing each item that was a result of his looting. When the brunet finished his mini inspection, he either hurriedly stuffed the item into one of two rucksacks, marked with a heart or sun patch respectively, or it was dropped haphazardly on the floor.

In the eleven hundred and forty-three years Feliciano was alive to watch the sun rise and fall, he observed the myriad of signs for when a battle was well on its way—one of which included the scrambled packing of rations, not unlike what was unfolding right before his very eyes in this moment. It wasn't even a genuine question when Feliciano finally asked, "So, Arthur and his friends really have taken Sicily, then? And they're coming here, I take it?" For a moment, Romano paused, just briefly enough to turn and properly face Feliciano. At his brother's questioning brow, the latter murmured, "Ludwig told me."

Romano scoffed, returning to his packing. "Right, of course he did."

There was a moment of hesitation. Then, Feliciano asked, "Lovino, are we going to run away?"

The Southern half paused again, sighing. "Not—well, no, not exactly."

"I don't understand, Lovi. Even when wars got scary, we've always stayed and weathered it out. Why aren't we doing that now?"

Romano didn't deign that with a response; without a word of warning, he tossed the heart-marked rucksack to Feliciano and shouldered past the younger man to the bedroom. Feliciano, unsure as ever, absently followed his brother's lead.

Now, with the sun fully pouring into the windows, Feliciano could see the way the golden light created deep, weary shadows around his brother's face. Lines, no doubt carved by centuries of endless stress and worry, were clearly defined on the man's face. It was a sharp contrast from the younger man's youthful, boyish features; there was little room to wonder if this was yet another byproduct of their different upbringings. _When Lovino looks like this, so much older than he really is, he looks so much like Grandpa Rome._

"It's not up for debate," Romano said, effectively dragging Feliciano from his thoughts. The older man had taken to raiding the dresser drawers now, yanking out any irreplaceable items and necessities his bag had to spare. Feliciano joined him, albeit only as quickly as his addled brain would allow. It wasn't even noon yet, and his mind was still attempting to wade through the self-preservation and internal emotional toil, so his brother would just have to forgive him for any information he didn't absorb right now.

Swallowing the rare, sharp retort that was certainly prepared to launch off his tongue, Feliciano closed the drawer—not too gently—and moved on to the closet.

"As I'm sure you've heard from that potato bastard," Romano continued, noting his brother's irritation (not something anyone would want to cross) and taking on a calmer approach, "Sicily's been invaded by the Allies. It won't be long before they show up here, so we need to get you out of here."

"But, what about you, Lovino?" Feliciano asked, fretting. "Sicily is your home, yes? You look so tired, _fratellone_ , and you're obviously hurting so much. Is travel really a good idea right now? Shouldn't we at least wait until you're feeling a little better?"

"Enough with the questions, Feliciano," Romano snapped, waving a dismissive hand, no doubt feeling every bit of the exhaustion and pain catching up with him. "Come on. If you've got enough strength to pester me with questions, then you've got the strength to tackle this trip."

Feliciano nodded—not quite reassured but somewhat appeased by his brother's familiar mood for now—and moved to continue prepping for the journey. "I guess so," Feliciano murmured. The words weren't intended to fall on his older brother's ears, but of course the Southern Italian caught every syllable.

"Yeah, well," he grumbled, "guessing's for idiots who don't know what they're doing. We, on the other hand, are not idiots and have a game plan."

Feliciano, having decided he wasn't entirely done questioning his brother, and knowing that the man did his best thinking when utterly vexed, humoured him. "Which is?"

As expected, Romano began to pace, suddenly thrown into a whirlwind of thought. "We go to Monaco," he reasoned. "Technically they're a neutral space, so the Allies have no reason to go there, but the Monacans are Axis-leaning and will be on our side if those Ally bastards _do_ show up. Besides, it's so close to Frances that they wouldn't expect us to go there to begin with. We'll be safe there, right under their noses, and it'll only take us three days to get there, so we'll have an extra to stop and rest along the way."

Felciano hummed, carefully turning over the new information. "Okay. Okay, yeah, that sounds like a good plan."

For a moment, a blessed moment, silence fell upon the brothers, save for the occasional rustle of clothes or dull thump of something being placed in one of their rucksacks. Finally, Romano fastened his rucksack closed and swung it onto his back. "Feli," he said. " _Fratellino mio_ , do you trust me?"

"Ve?" Feliciano's attention snapped to Romano, confused by the sudden question. "Of course, I trust you, Lovi. You're my big brother! If I can't trust you, then I can't trust anyone."

"Alright then." Romano heaved an ever-weary sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm so sorry, Vene," he murmured, reaching out to cup his calloused hand around his younger brother's cheek. "I know this is a lot, okay? But, I need you to be strong and do everything I tell you. The whole point of this is to keep you safe, and I swear on our _Nonnuccio's_ grave that's exactly what I'm going to do. No matter what it takes, _capisti_?" Feliciano nodded. "So, if anything happens to me, you need to be prepared to leave me behind, okay? I'm not taking no for an answer, either. Promise me: if it comes to it, you _will_ walk away from me."

 _It's happening again_ , Feliciano realized. Centuries-old heartache and desperation slammed into him like an oncoming freight. He swore he'd never let this happen again. "What? No! There's no way I'd—"

"Will you just shut up and do what I say for once?" Romano roared, slapping a hand over Feliciano's mouth. " _Ti vogghiu beni, capisti?_ Do you think I'm not scared? That I'd love nothing more than to just take off and run? Read my lips: everything I am doing, I am doing because I'm trying to protect you. That's it, point-blank, period, paragraph, end of story! So, please…" Feliciano marveled, briefly, at the tears beginning to streak freely down his brother's face. It didn't escape him how Romano, for all his rage-infused bravado, was fighting for far more than just his brother's safety, even if the man wouldn't admit it for himself.

 _"I'm doing this for your sake. I know it's hard, but do not throw this chance away."_

Feliciano shook himself, forcing that memory back into the shadows of his mind with the rest. Romano was— _is_ —different than the others. "I—I promise, Lovi," he whispered. "I'll do what you say."

Neither man said anything for a long time, searching each other's eyes pleadingly for comfort. Finally, Romano stood, tugging his little brother to his feet. " _Amuninni, fratellino,"_ he said, smiling sadly. "We've got a lot of walking to do."


	3. Chapter 3

Sweat glistened on the young man's forehead as he trudged silently beside his comrades. Despite his efforts to put mind over matter, his internal clock refused to let him concentrate. Call it uncanny intuition, but he just knew that their party had been walking for hours. To where, none among them really knew. All anyone really did know was two things: it was imperative that they moved out of Sicily, for one thing. And the troops were growing weary of all of this nonstop walking, for another.

Operation Husky, the higher ups called it.

Licking his chapped lips—damn, this infernal heat—the young soldier took a courageous step forward, falling out of line. One foot in front of the other, again and again, the man did not pause until a flaxen patch of hair entered his sights. Attached to it appeared to be an average man, but a closer look would no doubt shatter this illusion. The man's immortality seemed to radiate off him, creating a youthful glow rivaled only by his hair in the sunlight. This was Field Marshal Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom himself.

For all the evident exhaustion, from those unfocused green eyes to the bruises beneath them, the man was the very picture of proper: back straight, shoulders back, eyes head. He walked with his head held high, as if the hours toiling beneath the bloody sun was laughable. And perhaps, the soldier mused, centuries of wars and suffering would make a mere invasion—especially a successful one—seem like nothing. For a moment, he almost felt guilty for what he was about to do, as if his concerns were petulant whining compared to what these godlike beings have been through.

Regardless, that didn't make the suffering of his men any less valid. Making up his mind, and before he could stop himself, he reached forward, laying a hand on the nation's shoulder. At least, that's what he tried to do. Before the soldier could so much as blink, another hand intercepted his own, expertly tugging the soldier upward into a painful arc, toward the heavens and back down to the dirt.

Ah—he'd completely forgotten about the American beside the Englishman.

His brain was so rattled that it took far longer for him to register what even happened. Unfortunately, it didn't take as long for a throbbing ache to settle across his entire body. Faintly, he could hear an American accent frantically apologizing above him—Virginian, his mind unhelpfully supplied. "I'm so sorry, dude! I totally didn't mean to throw you that hard, I swear! Are you okay?"

With his brain still thoroughly rattled, the poor man barely noticed being pulled to his feet. Suddenly, England was standing in front of him, the very picture of concerned, asking if the young man was alright. "I'm fine," the soldier responded. "Just caught me a bit off guard, that's all. I should have been more careful."

"Don't worry about that," England said, still fretful. "It's not at all your fault. The bloody yank is just pure reaction, I swear." A slight smirk pulled at his lips when, in the background, America himself cried out in protest. Ignoring him, England continued. "What's your name, son?"

"Oh, no, sir, it's alright. You're so busy—I doubt it matters in the long run anyway."

"Nonsense," the Englishman said. "What sort of commanding officer would I be if I didn't know my own troops' names, hm? Surely, even with this damned war, I could never be too busy for that."

"Mark," the soldier said, smiling a bit timidly. Realizing just who he was speaking to, he straightened and stood at attention. "Erm, Second Lieutenant Mark Wilson, sir!"

Laughing-his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, Mark noted-England waved his hand in dismissal. "Now, now, Mark," he said. "At ease; no need to be so formal. Why don't you tell me what you needed before-" He shot a pointed look at his companion, who was staring with equal deliberateness at the ground. "-you were so rudely intercepted."

"Ah, well, sir, I needed to speak with you about the troops."

"Yes?"

Gathering all of his courage, Mark rose to his full height, determined to appear firm. "With all due respect, sir, we've been on the move for days now. I understand the urgency, but my men can't operate at full capacity when they're thoroughly exhausted. Their morale is plummeting at this rate."

England hummed thoughtfully, taking in the troops. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I think a short break would be a fine idea."

That includes you as well, you know, Mark thought. Surely immortals aren't immune to fatigue as well.

It was at this particular moment when America decided to rejoin the conversation. "What?" he said. "Nah, come on, man! We should be trying to catch up to those mafioso brothers instead of sluggin' around!"

England shot a glare America's way; his eyes darkened dangerously. He gestured to the sea of men behind them, exasperated. "Alfred," he said, opting to ignore how the American winced at the name. "My men have taken Catania's port, as according to plan. Isn't that enough for now?"

"Yeah," America growled, taking an emboldened step into England's personal space. "Good for you! But now the rest of the operation's at a goddamn standstill. While we're sitting around here, Italy is God only knows where, and the German troops are making their retreat! Last time y'all cut those bastards a break-"

Mark could only stand on the sidelines, forcing his mouth from falling agape. Was the American really faulting England, the man who raised him, for this war?

If England thought so, he made every effort not to show it. Instead, he met America's challenge, closing the distance between them and getting every bit as close. He wasn't going to back down, and Mark felt an odd swell of pride.

"Wake up this instant, you delusional little punk," he hissed. "These men are here, laying down their lives, for our purposes. The least we can do is cut them a short break. Rest assured, this war isn't going to end if we give them that much." Turning to the young soldier, he smiled-God above, the man looked so tired-and clapped the latter's shoulder. "Go tell the others that we'll be picking up the pace again in about an hour. For now, we'll rest."

Mark gave a sharp salute and spun on his heel to return to his men. As he walked away, he heard the two countries resume their argument, voices lowered but with heightened vitriol. Just as he left their earshot, he heard one last plea from England. He sounded lost, frighteningly desperate, as if he didn't recognize the man standing before him.

"...n't understand you! When did you become so bitter and angry? For God's sake, Alfred, when will your hunger be satisfied?"


End file.
